


Songs of Experience

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-23 23:35:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: Julian is very used to playing at normal, although his life has been anything but.





	Songs of Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Set post season 7, ignoring book continuity.

Julian Bashir sits in the runabout and idly skims over the controls. At his fingertips he can find out all sorts of information: relative velocity of the runabout, the altitude of the orbit he's currently in, and the number of Federation and other vessels, orbital stations and manufacturing yards in the area, just to give name to some of it. The exact kind of information that was flashed up on his screens as the runabout decclerated into sublight speeds as it entered the Cardassian system; the exact kind of information he stored away the moment it was shown to him. He doesn't need to see it again, of course, but he calls it up anyway, as if daring his memory to be wrong. It's an old habit, and he does it without thinking; it's served him well these long years.  
  
It isn't wrong of course, but double checking is something a normal person would do, and Julian is very used to playing at being normal.  
  
There is a cursory military presence roughly ten thousand klicks away from him - an assortment of Starfleet and Klingon vessels ostensibly there to protect Cardassia Prime now that it can no longer protect itself. Six months since the battle ended and the victory won, and Julian's lip curls in faintly-disguised contempt at the ease he managed to get past the security cordon. He might not look like the Maquis (if any of them still survive) or some rebel faction from the Klingons, Breen or God knows who, but they led him by because those brave Starfleet personnel (and even braver Klingon warriors) do not _want_ him to be a spy.  
  
War had made them tired and weary and clinging for hope where they could find it, and Julian absently wonders if Sloane was right, if the Federation wasn't built for war at all. Perhaps if not for destiny, they wouldn't have won. Perhaps they shouldn't have won, as here he sits in an unsearched runabout, no blood screenings necessary.  
  
It is not that he doesn't understand the desire, the base desperate _need_ for hope, and the willingness to believe that comes with it; he does, certainly, his medical training and own observation has granted him a very thorough knowledge of behaviour both human and alien, but understanding doesn't automatically grant acceptance, or sympathy.  
  
Julian Bashir has never had any trouble with his head, but he still regards his heart to be somewhat of a grey area.  
  
He signals the starbase now in orbit around the planet, and gets permission to land the runabout on the planet. Julian doesn't question how easily the permission was granted - he is after all, a crew member of Deep Space 9, a hero several times over. He knew Captain Sisko before he became a Captain, and before he became a God, and will probably go down in history along such stalwarts as Crusher and McCoy. Not bad for someone who only came second in his graduating class, and any irritation he feels at the accolade (or the laxity of the security) is compensated by the fact it gets him what he wants, and quickly.  
  
They are lucky he's not a Changeling agent, but then the Dominion has done that before, and they do seem to like to at least pretend to be original. At any rate, if he was, the security personnel that granted him access to this system would likely be dead within a few days, so their actions carry their own reward.  
  
He sets the autopilot for a slow descent and settles back in the chair to wait. Transporting down would have been an issue; there is still the occassional clitch cause by the predominance of silicates and other elements in the dust that pervades the atmosphere. Six months on and the Federation's best experts can merely advise that no action be taken; the dust must be allowed to settle naturally into the climate cycle of the planet, and it is disapating, albeit slowly.  
  
Respiratory diseases on Cardassia have climbed to almost unheard of levels, and with all the pollution in the waterways left over from the war, bowel and stomach cancers have also grown. Out of the civilian personnel currently stationed on or around the planet, half might be engineers, but the other half are medical. It would have been very easy to tell the security cordon that he was just another doctor here to lend his help for as long as he could; they would have been suitably impressed by his diligence and dedication and the myth of Doctor Julian Bashir would have grown a little more in the telling. But Julian didn't feel like lying much today, and so politely informed them he had taken some leave and was going to visit a friend who was currently stationed on the planet.  
  
It was all true, and if anyone nosey looked into various records and saw that one Miles Edward O'Brien had been transferred to the relief effort from Deep Space Nine, put two and two together and made five, Julian wasn't about to correct them on their mental arithmetic.  
  
He had programmed the runabout for a very slow descent into the atmosphere: two hours, roughly, and sure enough as he counted the seconds away in his mind, it took him (roughly) two hours before he initiated the landing proceedures. Julian knows it didn't need to take that long, but ever since he was young, he likes to teach himself patience. It's somewhat arrogant of him, but considering he was always so much _faster_ than the other children, learning how to slow down and be content with it was a necessary skill. Besides, the arrogance is what he's used to now, and the time allows him to think.  
  
The runabout can manage the landing all by itself, and does so, settling on a large and relatively clear area that apparently used to be a medical school in one of Cardassia's university cities. The door whooshes open, and Julian steps out, getting used to gravity and sunlight not his own.  
  
"This whole area was possibly our most revered centre of learning," Garak says, perched on a boulder nearby. After a few moments, Julian realises that the boulder is actually a piece of rubble, and the area is nothing but a plain of rubble and detritus, graveyard to a city that was. "Technically, this was the suburbs, but do forgive me if I feel somewhat bound towards melodrama."  
  
He's dressed in similar clothing to what he wore on the station, the sort of clothing Julian expects to see him in. Once or twice he tried picturing Garak in the standard Cardassian armour, before deciding that it was far too bulky, far too _obvious_ for Garak to bother with it. What he wears - as he wore then - is a simple two piece garment, although now stained and matted with dust, quite different from the metallic armour. If nothing else, Garak would have demanded to join the Obsidian Order simply because they had to be more discreet in their choice of garb, being spies and all. He can almost picture Garak saying something cutting about the military's choice of tailor (and somehow managing not to get killed for the insult) and it makes him smile.  
  
"I'm so glad the unfortunate destruction of my entire planet amuses you, Doctor," is the cutting assessment of his expression. Garak looks him up and down with arms folded, and rises easily off the boulder with the grace of someone who's used to ducking for his life at an alarming regularity.  
  
"It wasn't that," Julian starts, and tries not to fumble. Garak makes him feel like a (blushing) schoolboy half the time, and although he knows the reasons, altering his behaviour around him is trickier than he thought. It's something he might discuss with Ezri, but he secretly suspects she'd find it amusing. Jadzia would have found it amusing as well, and made some wry remark that hinted she knew his reasons: Jadzia was very good at hinting, at insinuating, at flaunting both herself and the centuries of experience that comes with Dax. Julian is still getting used to the idea Ezri doesn't like to, and probably doesn't need to. Jadzia was stubborn, but wilful as well, whereas Ezri can be as implacable as a stone. "I was just-"  
  
"You were just what?" Garak inquires, and Julian realises he's been stuck in somewhat of a reverie.  
  
"Sorry, I was thinking about Ezri," Julian mentions offhandedly, his brain still racing, although he takes a few moments to enjoy the brief narrowing around Garak's eyes that signify a supressed grimace. His entirely random change of subject would have thrown Garak somewhat, and getting Garak off-balance was as enjoyable (and difficult) as it was productive.  
  
He doesn't bother to hide the smirk that spreads itself across his face; it's petty of him, but his victories are so few, these days.  
  
"I hope you haven't come all this way to mope about your relationship difficulties, Doctor. That would seemingly cast me in the role of best friend, and that seems a little presumptious - and a little naeive of you, wouldn't you say?" Garak's pitter-patter brand of condescending small talk hasn't changed. It's a bare thread above being openly contemptuous, which Julian supposes is a reward for the seven or more years of friendship they've shared. Garak also likes to invite agreement and/or response; it's a bit like watching a spider eagerly ensnare people in his web.  
  
Back on the station, Ezri had a lot of things to say about this one, but then she would. She watches, always, and the thin press of her lips and curve of arms crossed under the swell of her breast are signs Julian has learnt to be wary of. Their arguments are almost dispassionate, statements of intent and contempt, warning and parry, thrust and insinuation, surrender and outcome. The surrender is almost always his these days, and Julian figures he doesn't really mind.  
  
There's a certain steel in her character now: Jadzia may have been arrogant, but Ezri just is, and Julian recognises the signs. After all, the more talented the professional, the more likely they believe those around them are in dire need of their help, and now she has finally accepted being Dax in all senses of the verb, Ezri's talents are very formidable indeed. In many ways, she's now the best judge of character he's ever seen, and like all professionals (himself included) she can never quite stop being professional.  
  
"Oh, but Garak, I have no doubt you could offer me whatever advice I needed on relationships. After all, Ziyal was utterly smitten by your charm." There's another slight tightening of Garak's eyes, and Julian is far too old now and far too jaded to consider the fact he probably hurt him with that. But then, that is what they do, now. Over seven years, it has moved from curiosity to banter to insult.  
  
It's fond and painful and tired, like them. Too broken to heal and too damned to care.  
  
Garak beckons him over with a hand, and once Julian complies, he marches onwards across the dusty plain to a small series of hills. "As you can see, the industrial replicators and engineering staff haven't quite made it to the extremes out here yet. Apparently, there aren't enough in the whole quadrant to make Cardassia right again. Nor do we really have any health professionals left. But if you know of anyone willing and eager to practice 'frontier medicine', we'd be happy to have them."  
  
Julian shades his eyes, although the diffuse light that appears through the dusty sky doesn't really cause that much glare. It does give him a reason to cover his own sour face for a moment, and acknowledge the point lost.  
  
They walk on in silence for a while, content in said silence, because really they have to be and then Garak leads them over a rise and stops, grandly gesturing at the valley below.  
  
"Behold, the great city of Darthis." His tone is hollow and somewhat mocking, which is to say it's roughly normal. Julian looks to where he's pointing, and sees the remnants of the city Garak must have mentioned before. He does recognise the name; he considered studying at the University here once, as it was considered to be one of the best centres of learning in exobiology in the Alpha Quadrant, but there's no sign of that university now. Just another plain of stone and dirt, a few half demolished roads giving an indication of the original layout, and a small scattering of prefabricated emergency dwellings laid out in straight lines over the original plans.  
  
"The Dominion couldn't have done all this." The devastation is surely more than they could have handled.  
  
"They didn't," Garak murmurs succintly, and leads him down the hillside towards the waiting dwellings. There are a scattering of Cardassians in and around the small houses, some with equipment large and small, but most of them still seem intent on clearing up the mess. "The Federation did most of this in the conquest - sorry, liberation - of Cardassia."  
  
He's only doing it to piss him off, Julian can tell, or the insult would be far more biting, so he lets it pass. Ignoring the empty, somewhat nasty looks he gets from Garak's compatriots, he lets the other man steer them through the 'streets' between the new houses, and they finally reach one on the outskirts of the town - if it can be called that - not exactly the gleaming white it used to be, after six months in the sun and dust.  
  
"I thought you said you didn't have industrial replicators in this part of the continent yet," Julian murmurs as they step inside, but the inside is about as sparse and bare as the outer shell. Clinical would be a good word for it, he thinks, looking around. Living space, bathroom, sleeping space and cooking facilites, all wrapped up in a nice solid bonded polycarbide exterior and no walls to speak of. Clinical would be a good word for the way Garak has decorated it, which is to say he hasn't.  
  
"Oh, they hadn't," Garak affirms, and pulls up a chair for them both. Julian sits, and folds his arms across his lap. "But people need somewhere to live, so these domiciles were transported down to the surface and erected while we started to clean up and take stock. They are beginning to build infrustructure in this region - power, water, sanitation, but it's all underground. Most of the city's original network will have to be completely abandoned, and the Federation has such wonderful ideas about rebuilding our entire planet from the ground up."  
  
"I'm sorry," Julian says, but Garak just gives him a look and continues on.  
  
"Actually, I've come to like this little place," he says, looking around the building. "They are built to hold four you know, but I have all this to myself, so it's quite roomy."  
  
Garak wants him to ask why he's not sharing it with anyone, and Julian knows Garak wants him to, and Julian is reasonably sure Garak knows he knows, so he ignores his faint contempt for the familiar mindgames and asks the damn question.  
  
"Garak, why aren't you sharing it with anyone?"  
  
"Because it seems my reputation has gotten away with me," Garak sighs melodramatically. "I am known as a former Obsidian Order operative, wanted man under the Dukat regime, and besides, I consorted with humans. What more proof do my countrymen need?"  
  
"You're not expecting me to believe people blame the Federation for what happened here?"  
  
The look he receives from Garak is faintly wry. "I expected better of you, Doctor. Cardassia gets thrashed by the Klingons, and the Federation barely lifts a finger. It does not aid the new civilian government against the Maquis, let alone rebellious factions in the Military, and only rescues us from the Dominion in such a way that it leaves my planet and my people dependent on the _generosity_ of the _esteemed_ Federation in ways that will have us constantly grovelling to you for decades. Some of my countrymen believe you wished us this weak."  
  
"The emphasis was a nice touch," Julian observes, deadpan, after a few moments. "And the trace of spittle on your lips almost convinced me you were angry."  
  
"What makes you think I was not?" Garak enquires, far too wide-eyed and innocent for Julian to ever believe him.  
  
"I _know_ you, Garak," Julian tells him, not unfond. "You rarely let go of your emotions, and when you do, it typically has a purpose."  
  
"Indeed. And now that we've locked swords, parried and declared a draw, I suppose you will bid me adieu and go off to visit Chief O'Brien. He's overseeing restoration work in the capital, I believe."  
  
"I didn't come here to see Miles," Julian says flatly, "and to be perfectly honest I'd rather he didn't know I was here."  
  
"Am I to be your dirty little secret then?"  
  
"Something like that," Julian nods, agreeably, and the brief flash of anger on Garak's face is real this time - he always couldn't stand being held in contempt, for all that he did it to everyone else.  
  
"You're playing a very dangerous game, Doctor."  
  
"So sorry I'm intruding on your _home turf_ ," Julian snaps back, meaning it in more ways than one, "but then, that's all we ever do, isn't it? Play games at one another. Seven years of friendship, just a game, a simple entertainment." He sneers because he can and because he's not the person he was, and the person he is now disgusts himself.  
  
Garak controls himself and grows pensive, the fingers of one hand absently tapping on the chair. Or not so absent; Garak probably wants him slightly irritated, and this is an easy way to do it.  
  
"How is Dax?"  
  
Julian isn't exactly taken aback by the question, the change of subject, or the phrasing - Dax instead of Ezri, because Garak knows him and his weak spots, so he just shifts in the uncomfortable prefabricated shiny white chair, and takes a moment to regroup. "Ezri is fine. We're fine. She couldn't stop talking about you before I came, actually."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"Yes. I think she rather suspected I've been wanting to catch up with you for a while; after all, she knows both of us quite well - she probably even knows why I came here."  
  
Garak does seem shocked at that. It seems Cardassian propriety does have some advantages. "You're not serious."  
  
"Oh yes. On reflection, I'm surprised she didn't ask to tag along. I'm sure she'd like to watch."  
  
"I'm sure that was more a Jadzia activity, my dear Doctor."  
  
Julian cuts him off, deliberately brittle of tone and with a vague gesture of his hand. He's used to surrender now for quite some time, but he does know how to go down fighting. "Call me Julian for once, Garak. You can manage that, I know."  
  
"Julian, then-"  
  
He cuts him off again, because he can and because it's interesting to see how far they can push each other before this gets nasty. Well. Nastier. "And far be it for me to judge your assessment of others, Jadzia would have told us fifty times she was going to do this and in doing so give us ample time to run away. She boasted, but I don't think she always made good on what she claimed."  
  
"And Ezri? She seems a little delicate for what you described."  
  
"Ha." Julian snorts, and then chuckles, passing a hand over his face. He hasn't got the patience for these games, never did, but he did learn a trick or two in passing. "Ezri means what she says and feels utterly no need to prove herself anymore; she's Dax now, and that's all that matters. If she wanted to come here, she would have, and if she wanted to watch, she'd be sitting over at that chair-" he gestures somewhat wildly in the direction of the chair that leans against the wall "-completely stark naked and smoothing her fingers across the curls of her hair before dipping them into her _cunt_ as she watched as we got it on!"  
  
"You always were a trifle melodramatic, Doctor," Garak tells him, quiet and dismissive, "and I am sad to say so, but you are not perhaps the greatest writer of graphic pornography in the quadrant."  
  
Julian grins. He has him now, and leans forward to gesture in a broad oval at Garak's face. "But it turned you on, nonetheless."  
  
"I beg your pardon?" Garak asks, and recoils in his seat.  
  
"Your face is suddenly a fair bit paler, Garak," Julian informs him, all clipped and brisk, the soul of business, if not medical discretion. "It's a symptom of Cardassian arousal; blood is shunted from the extremes to go where it's really needed," and flicks his eyes down Garak's body, briefly. "But then, you did evolve from a reptilian ancestor."  
  
"Do you know how much I wanted to fuck you?" Garak explodes, every muscle straining in his neck, his teeth all but clenched together. "From the very first time we had that lunch, and you flirted at me - somewhat outrageously I might add - I used to picture myself seducing you into my shop for a minor alteration and bending you over a dresser . In many ways, I even thought you would be amenable, considering Dax."  
  
It's not untrue, but Julian doesn't recognise the connection, and says so, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Forgive me for saying so," Garak tells him, smug and moderately urbane - it's amazing what the feeling he knows something someone else doesn't will do for his composure - "but you chased after a being of indeterminate gender for seven years, and you expect someone to not consider you might be more open to...alternatives, shall we say?"  
  
"But Jadzia and Ezri are _women_ , Garak," he exclaims, and almost sounds as innocent as he did seven years ago.  
  
"And in case of emergency, the Dax symbiont could be transferred to a male body. Even before I found out you were genetically enhanced-" and it's not point-scoring now, just a statement of fact "-I knew you could be quite analytical, when you didn't let your emotions get the best of you. Before even _persuing_ either Dax, you would have considered all possible outcomes - including the placement of the symbiont in another body. When you realise it or not, Doctor, you only commit to something if you feel you can handle every eventuality."  
  
"But I tend to commit to everything," Julian observes.  
  
"Yes. I do believe humans call that 'overweening pride'."  
  
Julian presses his lips together, and Garak spreads his hands in what might be considered a gesture of concilliation, if it came from anyone else. "Why didn't you bend me over a dresser, then?"  
  
"Because you would have insisted on dating me, even if it was simply a token gesture. I didn't intend on being one of your many conquests."  
  
"I don't have conquests," Julian mutters, irritably.  
  
"Of course you do. And although I could tell you would have responded to my overtures, any relationship we had would have been testament to your towering need for non-comformity." Garak announces it simply, and doesn't seem to care he's just shattered Julian's world into several ungainly pieces.  
  
He stares at the other man. "Do you really think I do that?"  
  
"Of course you do, for the same reason you date a different woman every month, and I've heard rumours of what you've gotten up to with some of the male nursing staff."  
  
Julian winces, because Garak would have found out about that if anyone could, and he may be unkind but rarely untrue. About others, anyway. Himself is a different story. "I do hope you're going to explain that, Garak."  
  
"Of course I am, my dear Doctor. You're genetically engineered, and you've always been secretly terrified you're little more than a puppet on a string. So you rebel. In small ways, obviously, nothing truly threatening. But it gives you a certain rakish air, and the sense of freedom. However much you did like me, a part of you would have done it for the sheer delicious sense of scandal."  
  
"I did like you very much," Julian admits, sounding tired, and reaches back to scratch his neck. "In some ways I'm very fond of you now - fonder even than I was, but I don't know if I like you as much."  
  
"You're not the young man I met on the Promenade seven years and six months ago. You have over time learnt a lot from me, I think, and not always the best things." His tone turns almost wistful. "I enjoyed your innocence a bit too much; that was what attracted me to you in the first place, that brash certainty that things would turn out for the best. It's a trait one rarely gets to see when one is me. People tend to close up around you."  
  
"Have things turned out for the best?" Julian asks, wry and full of humour, and half smiles at the expression Garak flashes at him.  
  
"I'd say they have, dearest Julian. And if they have not, well - we'll lie about it, won't we?"  
  
He laughs out loud at that, because he has no other choice. "I think I fell in love with you when I realised you would only kill me for the best reasons."  
  
"Or the best money," Garak quips, and Julian grins at that.  
  
"Yes, well, either way is rather flattering, isn't it?"  
  
They look at each other and smile, and there's a pause. "You could have been my greatest student," Garak admits after a while.  
  
"And you my greatest teacher, but I am merely a Doctor, and you, plain and simple Garak, had best remain fixed on being a tailor before the lynch mob out there gets ideas."  
  
"Indeed." Garak smoothes his hands down his thighs to his palms, and Julian can see the finely manicured state of his nails, of all things. "Shall we, then?"  
  
"Shall we what?" Julian looks at him, puzzled, and Garak stands up, one hand dragging Julian with him. He complies easily enough, and doesn't resist when Garak slowly slides his arms around his waist.  
  
"Do what you came here for. Have one brief moment in which we get to do everything we wanted to and never did, so you can lay your worries at rest."  
  
"You don't think it's a good idea," Julian realises, and Garak taps his nose gently, affectionately. It's almost a reward for being able to read him so well.  
  
"Of course I do. It's maudlin, self-indulgent and can only lead to regret."  
  
"You really think you're that good?"  
  
"Julian, if I had fucked you over that dresser on Deep Space Nine, you wouldn't have chased after Ezri." He whispers it huskily, easily in Julian's ear and Julian shivers and Garak holds him a little tighter.  
  
"But won't you regret this as well?" he asks, and manages not to feel completely self-conscious in groping Garak's arse.  
  
"Quite possibly more than anything in my life."  
  
Julian has to pull back at that. "Oh?"  
  
"I'm a spy, Doctor. I'm used to living with regret. You, however, are not. It's one of your most refreshing qualities." Garak drags a finger down Julian's face - forehead to nose to mouth, and Julian catches it between his lips and teases the tip with his tongue.  
  
Garak goes even paler, and whimpers. Julian rather enjoys seeing him like this, and tells him.  
  
For the moment, there is only now. Julian has always been good at living in the now, and so has the man kissing him. Seven years has changed them, left them able to see each other in a clearer, fonder light. Not that it matters - if clinical was the word for Julian, and Ezri, it was also the word for Garak, and they both know what happens this day will lie unsaid and undisturbed.


End file.
